


THE CAT THAT SWALLOWED THE PIGEON ★

by elfroot



Series: Commander of the Grey [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Awkward Crush, Humor, M/M, Nudity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-12
Updated: 2015-05-12
Packaged: 2018-03-30 07:16:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3927793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elfroot/pseuds/elfroot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A twist on Alistair & Wynne’s banter, had Cullen been the recruited Warden. First of many drabbles in which Warden Rutherford ultimately ends the Fifth Blight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	THE CAT THAT SWALLOWED THE PIGEON ★

**Author's Note:**

> _save me from cullistair hell_

He’s not looking.  _Not really_. He’s not looking—let alone  _staring_ —at the man standing tall in the middle of a pond,  _naked_ , limned golden and ethereal by the half-moon, strong arms and strong hands cast upon supple skin. He’s not looking, and his gaze certainly doesn’t waver,  _slip_ , at the sight of waves rippling around firm hips, splashes of water dotting his flesh in crystal light. He’s not looking, and he doesn’t notice the limpid beads running down his back, his flank, damp strands of hair curled around his nape, and he doesn’t note,  _even vaguely_ , the prominence of his collarbone under the long line of his throat, the smooth planes of his chest or the overall broad of his shoulders, jaw gruff from unshaven stubble. He doesn’t see  _anything_  and it’s just as well, because he’s here for a reason—gathering wood, for one—and he doesn’t have time to stop and gawk. He doesn’t have time for glimpses of taut muscles or sharpened lines across a tight stomach because  _who does that_   _and he’s not creepy_ , even as his gaze falters, cheeks warmer and furtive glances towards blond curls, damp as well between strong thighs, and he sees  _but he doesn’t,_  cheeks  _hotter_  and mesmerized glances, the shape of his s-shaft,  _thick_ , nestled there but not quite a-asleep and—

“Alistair?”

— _Maker’s breath_ , and he jumps and he bites his tongue and he  _groans_ , all the wood he’s gathered pooling at his feet. Wynne stands poised behind him, elegant in the midst of trees, and he gestures towards her, abrupt,  _quick_ , his pulse wild against his ribs.

“Shhhhh!”

“And just  _why_  are we whispering, pray tell?”

“We’re not whisp—” he  _whispers_ , clicks his tongue and clears his throat, indignant as he frowns, and he says, much louder, certain to be heard,  _hoping_  to be heard: “We’re _not_  whispering! We’re just… gathering wood,  _I’m_ gathering wood, and oh! Look at that, someone in the pond, I hadn’t seen him. Had you? Seen.  _Him_.”

And he catches another glimpse— _Warden Rutherford_ —lower underneath the surface now, waving,  _at him_ , and he flushes and he crouches, hands idle in the heap of dry branches on the ground, a muffled noise in his throat.

Wynne, on the other hand, still stands calm beside him, a lopsided sweep curling her lips.

“Well, I most assuredly see him  _now_ ,” she says, and there’s a laugh on her tongue and the flush across his face brightens drastically, fingers stiff around the branches.

“We should… go,” he grouses, and he stands back up and  _she_  doesn’t move, arms crossed over her chest.

“Why now? You didn’t seem quite as hurried as you look now before I came.”

“And w-why are  _you_  here? Are you stalking me?  _You’re stalking me_. Like an old… sneaky… stalking thing.”

“Oh, I merely came to see what was taking you so long, dear. Now I know.”

“And you’re smirking. Why are you smirking. You look suspiciously like the cat who swallowed the pigeon.”

“ _Canary_.”

“What?”

“I look like the cat that swallowed the  _canary_ ,” she corrects, patient,  _ominous_ , and a bark splits the air behind them—Threnodies, their Mabari, jumping in the pond—and he hears laughter and he feels his knees,  _weaker_ , and he hopes she doesn’t see the warmth darkening his face.

“I once had a very large cat,” he gathers the wood closer to his chest, a sidelong glance towards the dog, playing with Cullen— _Warden Rutherford_ —and his nostrils flare and he grits his teeth,  _huffs_ , a loud sigh on his lips. “But that’s not the point! My point is… why are you smirking like that?”

And he knows, just as the words flow out of his mouth, that he really shouldn’t have asked.

“You were watching him.”

“W-Who?” he frowns, feigning innocence, eyebrow quirked wary and cautious.

“Oh, you know who, young man. You don’t teach an old lady to suck eggs. You  _were_ watching him, and with great interest, I might add. In fact, I believe you were… enraptured.”

“He’s our leader,” he shakes his head, taking a step back, hugging the branches harder. “I look to him for… guidance.”

“Oh, I see. And what guidance did you find in the glow of his bare body? Were you inspired by his backside, or was it the contours of his chest?”

“I wasn’t… I  _didn't—_ I wasn’t  _looking_  at his… you…  _know_ …”

“Certainly.”

“I… I  _gazed_ , maybe,” he stutters, and his cheeks throb and his chest hammers and he feels his heart in his temples, turning to look again, at him,  _Cullen_ , and he catches the shadow of his smile and he  _squeals_  because he looks so damned beautiful. “I-I mean, I did glance, in that direction, but I wasn’t…  _staring_  or… really seeing anything even.”

“I can hardly blame you. He is a rather handsome man.”

“That he is,” he sighs, soft, gentle, a faint curve to his lips, and  _she_  chuckles and he blanches and he jumps again and  _no, no, that’s not what I mean_ , and he drops the wood and he fumbles to catch his breath, and his face is about to burst. “He isn’t… I mean,  _he is_ , but I…  _I_  didn’t mean—”

“Of course.”

“I hate you,” he croaks, walking past her in his flustered glory, and she follows, soundless—he only knows because he looks, over his shoulder, seeing her but seeing  _him_  as well, looking back,  _at him_ , longingly, and he nearly heaves  _and it’s her fault_  because of course he wouldn’t look at him like that, not Cullen, his leader, ex-templar, strong and capable and so ridiculously gentle now, his gaze,  _tender_ , locked into his, and he trips over his own feet and he curses, and she laughs.

“You’re a bad person,” he groans as he finds his balance again, crimson,  _hot_ , guts fluttering, and he runs from her, agitated and warm, wishing he could disappear.

“Sweet dreams, Alistair,” but his dreams are anything but sweet once slumber finally overtakes him, and he wakes before everyone else, in dire need of a cold bath.

 


End file.
